


‘Gana Mean

by Y_Pen_yn_y_Garreg



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Childhood, Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, Childhood Rivalry, Family, Friendship, Gen, Innocence, Loss of Innocence, Parent-Child Relationship, Pre-Betrayal, Unwitting Brother Sister Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 10:26:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9067666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Y_Pen_yn_y_Garreg/pseuds/Y_Pen_yn_y_Garreg
Summary: Two-year-old Arthur has a fight with three-year-old Morgana, and it’s down to Uther and Gorlois to try and patch things up.
A look at the innocent beginnings of a relationship doomed to end in tragedy.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story’s a bit unusual for me in that it’s written in regular narrative format, whereas most of the time I write TV show fan fiction in screenplay format (which to me is the natural extension of my strong belief that nine times out of ten the most satisfying book fan fiction is the kind that mirrors the style of the original author as closely as possible). But suffice it to say, I had my reasons for putting this story in narrative format.
> 
> **Width and Font-Size Options:** [12pt (narrow)](), 12pt (full), 14pt (narrow), 14pt (full)

“Gorlois!”

Uther’s shout of welcome rang down the stone corridor as he strode towards his old friend.

“And little Morgana,” he added, coming to a halt and making a small bow to the three-year-old girl clasped in Gorlois’s arms. “It’s always an honour, my lady. You grow more and more beautiful with every passing day.”

Morgana giggled and hid her face in Gorlois’s shoulder.

“Are we still on for the hunt?” asked Uther, turning back to Gorlois.

“Of course,” replied Gorlois. “But Morgana and I were just looking for Arthur,” he added, looking down at the little girl. “Isn’t that right, sweetie? Morgana was wondering if he’d like to play.”

“Is that right?” Uther asked Morgana, in a passable attempt at a warm, fatherly tone. But Morgana apparently still found the king too intimidating to manage more than a shy nod.

“Well,” said Uther, looking back up the corridor, “Arthur should be along any – Ah, here he is.”

A few paces away near an open doorway stood a servant girl, holding a little boy with golden hair about a year younger than Morgana.

“I believe Arthur is about to head for the nursery,” said Uther. “You may accompany him, if you like, Morgana.”

“That sounds fun, doesn’t it, Morgana?” Gorlois asked. “Why don’t you go play with Arthur and this young woman –” he nodded towards the servant girl “– while Papa goes hunting with his friend, King Uther?”

The servant girl drew nearer, smiling encouragingly at Morgana. As she passed Uther, Arthur held out his arms towards him, taking no notice of Morgana or Gorlois.

“Not now, Arthur,” said Uther. “I’ll come visit you in the nursery later.”

The two-year-old made a disappointed little huffing noise, but dropped his arms without argument.

The same couldn’t be said for Morgana as Gorlois set her down on the floor and the servant girl held out a hand for her to take. She gripped Gorlois by the leg of his trousers and shrank away from the maid.

“No, Papa, you come wit’!”

With a slight laugh, Gorlois knelt down beside Morgana and took her gently by the shoulders.

“Papa’s going hunting like we talked about, remember? And the hunt is no place for a little girl. You’ll be just fine with …”

He looked questioningly up at the servant girl.

“Bretta, my lord,” said the girl.

“Bretta is going to take you and Arthur to play, just like you wanted, remember?”

Morgana looked uncertainly at Bretta and then back at Gorlois.

“Wi’w deh be toys?”

“I imagine so.”

Morgana turned to Bretta for confirmation. Bretta nodded.

Morgana heaved a great sigh. “Oh, a’ wight … I go. _But_ ,” she added sternly, “you no be out yate.”

“All right,” said Gorlois with a grin, “I won’t stay out late.”

“P’omise?”

“Promise,” said Gorlois, giving Morgana a hug and a kiss. Morgana kissed him back and then consented to take Bretta’s hand and allowed herself to be led away along the corridor.

“She’s a fine child,” said Uther, watching her go.

“As is Arthur,” said Gorlois.

“Ah, well, I still have a long way to go with Arthur …”

“I think that’s always true with children,” said Gorlois, laughing. “ _Especially_ at this age. And believe me, if Morgana’s any indication, it’s going to get worse before it gets better.”

“That’s a very grim outlook,” said Uther. “It’s just a matter of teaching them what is and isn’t acceptable. Arthur’s learning – slowly, but he’s learning.”

“Well, anyhow, I’m glad our children have got this opportunity to spend time together.”

“As am I,” said Uther. “It is my hope that someday they shall be as close friends as you and I.”

“Or perhaps … a little more than friends,” said Gorlois, with a sly wink.

“Well, let’s just … see what the future brings,” said Uther, not quite meeting Gorlois’s eyes.

“Not that I undervalue simple companionship,” said Gorlois, glancing along the corridor where Morgana could still be seen, toddling along beside Bretta. “At home, the only children her age belong to the household servants, and Vivienne is worried about her getting overly friendly with them … She believes that even at this young age, Morgana should be taught to appreciate the importance of rank and class.”

“A wise woman, your wife,” said Uther approvingly. “I couldn’t agree more. I have the same worry with Arthur. I have to constantly switch out the servants who attend to his needs while I’m engaged in matters of state, lest he grow too attached to one of them. It wouldn’t do for him to start regarding some servant girl as … as some kind of … motherly figure …”

“Ah …” said Gorlois uneasily. He stood silent for a moment, as though unsure of how to proceed. “It must be hard,” he said at last.

“Yes,” said Uther in a far-off voice. “Balancing the duties of King and sole custodian to a child … It’s a situation that was simply … never meant to be …”

“Aye,” said Gorlois, “but it must be hard for Arthur, as well … not to have a mother’s touch … That’s so important, especially at such a young age.”

“Well, there’s nothing that can be done about that,” said Uther, with a bite of irritation.

“Of course not,” said Gorlois placatingly. “Nothing could ever replace … his true mother … But perhaps Vivienne and the children could spend some time together … provide Arthur with some small measure of … motherly affection … without it having to come from … someone of inappropriate rank.”

“Vivienne’s got her own child to look after,” said Uther. “I couldn’t charge her with the care of my – my son, as well … And Arthur’s _fine_ ,” he added, shaking himself out of his reverie. “He can’t miss what he’s never known. He has servants enough to attend to his physical needs, and I’ll just have to attend to his … emotional requirements myself.”

Gorlois opened his mouth, but then seemed to decide that there was absolutely no tactful way of putting whatever he had been thinking into words, and hastily closed it again.

Uther gave himself one last shake.

“Enough talk of women and their motherly touches. I want to go kill something. Let’s hunt!”

Uther clapped an arm around Gorlois’s shoulder, and Gorlois couldn’t help but laugh as the two of them swept away down the corridor.

* * *

“Looks like we’ve got _two_ royals to run around after today,” said Bretta, letting go of Morgana’s hand and setting Arthur down on the floor.

At the sound of her voice, a young male servant whipped his head around to peer over the side of the wooden armchair he’d been sitting in.

“God help us!” he cried, leaping up. “I hope the new one’s got better manners than His Royal Highness, or else we’re doomed.”

Bretta rolled her eyes at the young man, as Arthur made a beeline for the wooden chest in the corner of the room, Morgana hot on his heels.

“Stop your whining, Ferris. _I’m_ the one who’s got a child of her own at home that has to be left there every day with his sick grandmother just so I can make the few measly coins our King’s willing to cough up for the care of his only son.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” scoffed Ferris. “Or are you not yet familiar with the turnover rate for this job?”

“Yes …” said Bretta slowly, “I just overheard the King saying he does that on purpose because he doesn’t want the boy forming a bond with one of us servants …”

“Like anyone’s gonna bond with that little brat,” snorted Ferris.

“ _Ferris_ ,” said Bretta reprovingly. “He’s just a child. It’s not his fault he hasn’t got a mother to teach him about when no means no, and …”

“And we servants have no place trying to teach the future King anything,” finished Ferris in a sing-song voice. “Although …” he added, leaning conspiratorially closer to Bretta, “one could argue that it _is_ the precious little prince’s fault he hasn’t got a mother.”

_WHACK!_

Arthur and Morgana looked up, startled.

“Ouch, you mad wench!” said Ferris, rubbing the red mark on his cheek left by Bretta’s hand.

“That was going too far,” said Bretta firmly. “And you’ll get a lot more than a smack in the face if you ever let the King hear you talking like that.”

“Valid point,” said Ferris, glancing nervously in the direction of the nursery door.

He took one lazy look around the chamber before turning back to Bretta – then he did a double-take.

“The little brat! Look what he’s doing! And you _know_ we’re the ones who are going to have to clean it all up!”

One by one, Arthur was taking every toy out of the chest and tossing it onto the floor.

“An’ haw’sey,” he said, taking out a wooden horse on rollers and passing it to Morgana. But after giving it a thorough examination, Morgana tossed it on the floor with all the rest.

“An’ doddy,” Arthur continued, handing her a stuffed toy dog, which also ended up on the floor a moment later.

“An’ bock …” – a wooden block – “‘nudduh bock …” – the second block hit the floor with a thunk – “‘an bea’w …”

Morgana hugged the stuffed bear to her for a moment but then tossed it onto the floor beside the dog.

“An’ …!” said Arthur spectacularly, leaning all the way over the side of the wooden chest and lifting out the last item with both his hands.

“A’tah cown!”

In his hands, he held a toy crown, carved out of wood and engraved with intricate designs of leaves and birds and other little animals.

Arthur set it proudly atop his shock of golden hair.

“Ooh! Piddy!” cried Morgana in delight, clapping her hands.

She reached out and tried to take the crown, but Arthur placed both hands firmly on top of it, holding it to his head.

“No, A’tah cown,” he said firmly. “‘Gana pay udduh toys.” He took one hand off the crown to gesture towards the dozens of toys scattered over the floor, but Morgana took no notice of them, her eyes fixed eagerly on the beautifully carved crown on Arthur’s head.

“My cown!” she cried, seizing a hold of it and tugging with all her might.

The crown jolted forwards, and Arthur’s head went with it. Moments later he found himself flung onto the hard wooden floor, and with a surge of triumph Morgana felt the crown come free in her hand.

From a chair next to Ferris, Bretta looked up with a gasp as Arthur’s head hit the floor with a loud clunk.

Arthur picked himself up off the ground and sat looking up at Morgana with the kind of quiet intensity that in a two-year-old is almost always precursor to a tirade of noisy tears.

But Morgana didn’t even notice. She was too busy placing the crown on top of her own dark locks, smiling in jubilation.

She didn’t look up until she heard Bretta cry out her name.

“Morgana! What have you done?”

She rushed over to Arthur and ran a hand over his head, checking for signs of serious damage.

“That was _mean_ , Morgana!” she scolded sternly, taking the toy crown off the head of the confused-looking little girl. “You mustn’t grab! If you see something you like, you ask for it _nicely_. Here you go, Arthur,” she said, offering the crown back to the little prince, but he ignored her completely, still glaring up at Morgana with the beginning traces of tears brimming in his bright blue eyes.

“Are you all right, Arthur?” asked Bretta in concern, picking him up and setting him on his feet.

Arthur took several heavy breaths, and just when it seemed certain he was going to burst into tears, he blinked away the ones already in his eyes.

Turning furiously to Morgana, he spat out at her with all the venom his little two-year-old voice could muster, “ _‘Gana mean!_ ”

And with that, he turned around and stomped away. He dropped down on top of an overturned wooden wagon with his back to Morgana and his arms folded.

“‘Gana mean!” he repeated, and soon it became a mantra. “‘Gana mean! ‘Gana mean! ‘Gana mean!”

A snigger rang out from the armchair in the corner, from which Ferris had been watching the whole scene lazily.

“You shouldn’t have tried to take the future King’s crown, little lady. He’ll never give it up without a right big fuss.”

Still chortling, Ferris sank back into the armchair.

Huffing at his lack of helpfulness, Bretta took the little wooden crown and strode off.

“If the crown is going to be such a point of contention between the two of you,” she told Morgana and Arthur, “then I’m just going to have to put it where _neither_ of you can reach it.” And with that, she slid the crown onto the top of a tall armoire.

Oblivious, Arthur continued his chant of “‘Gana mean!”, and Morgana, losing interest in the entire affair, turned her attention to the pile of toys, picking up the wooden horse and rolling it along the floor.

She continued to play blissfully, but the sound of the toy horse trundling over the wooden floorboards was punctuated every so often by another repetition of “‘Gana mean!”, as Arthur sat with his back turned and his arms folded, refusing to look at Morgana.

* * *

“Papa!”

Morgana leapt up, knocking over her tower of wooden blocks, as Gorlois entered the nursery.

Gorlois caught the little girl in his arms and spun her around once before pulling her into a hug.

“Did you have a fun time, Morgana?”

“Uh-huh!” said Morgana brightly.

“Did you and Arthur like playing together?” asked Gorlois.

Morgana giggled.

“A’tah no pay,” she said, pointing over Gorlois’s shoulder to the overturned wagon where Arthur was still sitting, drumming his feet against the floor, his arms still crossed.

“All right …” said Gorlois, not quite understanding. “Are you ready to go home and see Mama, sweetie?”

“Yay!” cried Morgana. “See Mama! See Mama!”

Gorlois laughed.

“All right, say bye-bye to Arthur.”

“Bye-bye, A’tah!” Morgana called out.

Arthur took no notice.

A few moments after Gorlois and Morgana exited the nursery chamber, Uther arrived. His eyes landed on Arthur, sitting on the wagon, twirling one of its wheels around and around.

“What are you doing over there, Arthur?” he asked with a confused half-smile.

Arthur’s head snapped around at the sound of his father’s voice. He tottered to his feet and turned to face Uther as he approached.

“Pada,” he said in greeting, holding his arms out to Uther again.

While “Papa” might have been good enough for Gorlois, Uther only ever addressed himself to his son as “Father”, and so far “Pada” was the closest Arthur had managed to get.

Uther knelt down in front of Arthur and placed his hands on the little boy’s shoulders.

“Have you had a nice time with Morgana today, Arthur?”

“No,” said Arthur unabashedly, giving his head a little shake.

“No?” repeated Uther, frowning. “Whyever not?”

“‘Gana _mean_ ,” said Arthur emphatically.

Uther looked up at Bretta, who was standing nearby.

“What does he mean by that?”

“I think he’s trying to say ‘Morgana is mean’, sire,” Bretta answered.

“I know _that_ ,” said Uther irritably. “But _why_ is he saying it?”

“Oh, uh …” said Bretta, slightly flustered by the King’s impatience, but she quickly pulled herself back together. “Arthur and Morgana had a bit of a scuffle over a toy crown.” She pointed to the top of the armoire. “Morgana got a little rough.”

“I see,” said Uther, turning back to his son.

“‘Gana mean,” Arthur repeated when Uther met his eyes.

“No, Arthur,” said Uther. “‘Gana is not – I mean,” he caught himself, “Morgana is not mean.”

But Arthur wasn’t having any of it.

“‘Gana mean,” he insisted again.

“Arthur,” said Uther sternly, “someday you will be King, and you cannot deal with hardship by complaining that others are mean. Do you understand me?”

But Arthur only scowled and crossed his arms sulkily.

“‘Gana _mean!_ ” he said forcefully.

“Arthur, look at me,” said Uther. “On your journey to become King, and indeed, even _after_ you become King, you will face many hardships, many unfairnesses, and many people who seem mean. But you cannot combat that by complaining – by hiding in a corner and sulking. Would you like me to tell you how you _can_ overcome such things?”

“How?” said Arthur resignedly.

“By being _strong_. If you are strong, then no matter how mean others may be, they can never hurt you. Do you understand, Arthur?”

Arthur looked up at his father.

“A’tah ton’,” he said.

Uther gave his son a rare smile.

“Yes, Arthur. You are strong.”

Arthur smiled back at his father and held his arms out once more.

“A’tah ton’,” he repeated.

Looking satisfied, Uther lifted Arthur into his arms and rose to his feet. He turned to leave the nursery.

“Don’t forget to clean this up before you come and prepare Arthur for his nap,” he called dismissively over his shoulder to Bretta and Ferris as he departed. “Oh – and,” he added, turning back for one moment, “don’t leave that up there.” He gestured towards the wooden crown on top of the armoire. “Placing it beyond Arthur and Morgana’s reach isn’t going to solve the underlying problem.”

“Yes, sire,” said Bretta, with a curtsey. Ferris bowed too, as Uther swept from the chamber.

Ferris poked his head around the door and waited until the King was safely out of sight before turning back to Bretta and saying, “Would it have killed him to have told his little brat to pick up his _own_ toys before they left?”

“Don’t even _think_ about it,” said Bretta as Ferris made to go and flop back down in his armchair. “I am _not_ cleaning all of this up on my own!”

* * *

“No! Not _again_ ,” groaned Ferris as Bretta entered the nursery the following evening with a toddler clinging to each hand.

“Morgana and Arthur are to play together while the King dines with Morgana’s father,” said Bretta.

“I guess we’ll just have to steel ourselves for another few hours of ‘‘Gana mean’,” sighed Ferris.

Once again, Arthur and Morgana made straight for the toy chest.

“It’s all right if you leave _some_ of the toys _inside_ the box this time,” said Ferris, to the general inattention of both his charges.

Arthur threw open the chest, and there, sitting right on top, was the very crown that had triggered all of yesterday’s problems. Arthur snatched it up at once and jammed it onto his head.

Morgana’s eyes lit up. “Ooh, ooh! Cown!” she cried, reaching for it.

“No, A’tah cown!” said Arthur, in the most commanding voice a two-year-old could muster.

Morgana’s hand shot forwards anyway, but this time Arthur was ready for her. He snatched the crown off his own head and flung it behind him where Morgana couldn’t reach it. Then, using both hands, he took one step towards her and shoved her in the chest with all his might.

Morgana landed hard on her elbows.

“A’tah ton’!” said Arthur, glowering down at Morgana as she gazed up at him in shock.

The silence lasted for three more seconds, and then Morgana made up for Arthur’s lachrymal deficit of the day before by bursting into a true fit of toddler-worthy hysteria.

“ _Papa!_ ” she wailed, springing to her feet and tearing from the room before a stunned-looking Bretta could do anything to stop her.

“You’d better get after her, then,” said Ferris lazily from his armchair, but as Bretta made to follow Morgana, he grabbed her arm and held her back. “Take the other one with you, as well. I can’t look after him all by myself.”

“Then what are you being paid for, you useless lump?” demanded Bretta, trying to wrench her arm from Ferris’s grasp.

“I’m serious,” said Ferris. “Last time I was alone with the little terror, he threw a block at my head! I’ve still got the lump.”

“Well, you always were a blockhead,” Bretta grumbled, scooping Arthur up and hurrying after Morgana. “Couldn’t have stopped her, could you?” she griped at the guards standing outside the nursery door as she passed them by.

“We’re guards, not nursemaids,” one of them called after her.

A few minutes later, Bretta burst breathlessly into the King’s chambers, holding Arthur with one arm and clutching a stitch in her side with the other.

“I’m – so – sorry, sire,” she panted. “She got away from me.”

Uther and Gorlois were sitting across from each other at the long wooden dining table. Morgana sat on Gorlois’s lap, still sniffling as she made him kiss both her elbows.

“Are you ready to tell me what happened now?” Gorlois asked patiently.

“A’tah push me down!” Morgana sobbed.

“ _Arthur_ ,” said Uther sternly, turning instantly to the little boy in Bretta’s arms, “come here at once.”

Bretta set Arthur down on the ground, and he toddled over to the King, who lifted him and stood him on a chair so they were eye to eye.

“Is this true? Did you push Morgana down, Arthur?”

“Yes,” said Arthur promptly.

Uther blinked.

He waved a hand at Bretta and told her she was dismissed. She curtseyed and backed out of the room.

“And why would you do such a thing, Arthur?” Uther demanded.

“‘Gana mean,” said Arthur. Uther drew himself up disapprovingly, but Arthur headed him off quickly. “A’tah ton’!”

Uther stopped short.

“Ah … I see. I think you misinterpreted our lesson from yesterday, Arthur. Being strong does _not_ mean that you push down little girls. There _are_ times when one must demonstrate his strength through force, but there are other times when one must show restraint. You must learn to discriminate, Arthur, between those who must be dealt with by force and those who by virtue of their station or of the relationship between their house and your own must be afforded courtesy, even in the midst of a disagreement. You will meet many in life whom you may rightly push down and put in their place, but you will meet others who must be afforded a place of honour. And, as a lady of the court, Morgana’s place is not at your feet, but at your side. So now,” he said sternly, “apologise to the Lady Morgana for your lapse in courtesy.”

Arthur took one look at Morgana and shook his head.

“I mean it, Arthur!” said Uther.

“No!” said Arthur. “‘Gana mean.”

“ _Arthur._ ”

“‘Gana _mean!_ ” said Arthur. with just as much force as his father. He wriggled down from the chair and stomped away.

“Arthur, come back here at once,” Uther ordered.

But Arthur ignored him.

“‘Gana mean,” he said, dropping down on the floor in a corner by the windows. “‘Gana mean! ‘Gana mean! ‘Gana mean!” he chanted, thumping his fists on his knees in time with each word.

“Stop that, Arthur,” Uther insisted.

Arthur put his hands over his ears and continued the chant.

“‘Gana mean! ‘Gana mean! ‘Gana mean!”

Gorlois frowned and looked down at the little girl on his lap.

“Morgana, do you know why Arthur thinks you’re mean?”

Morgana shrugged her shoulders.

“ _Morgana_ ,” Gorlois pressed, firmly but patiently, “I think you _do_ know. Tell me the truth. Why does Arthur think you’re mean?”

“I don’ know … maybe ‘cause … I take his cown.”

“You took Arthur’s crown?” repeated Gorlois, confused.

“His toy crown,” Uther explained quickly. “The servants tell me they fought over it yesterday.”

“I see,” said Gorlois, turning back to Morgana. “And did anything else happen?”

Morgana shrugged again.

“Maybe … A’tah faw’ down.”

“And did he fall down all on his own or did you make him fall down?”

“Really, Gorlois,” said Uther lightly, “this isn’t necessary. Arthur has to learn to take these things in his stride.”

“Maybe,” said Gorlois, his eyes still locked on Morgana’s, “but _Morgana_ has to learn to be kind. Why did Arthur fall down, Morgana?”

“Maybe … I knock him down … when I take his cown,” said Morgana innocently.

“I see,” said Gorlois. “And how would you feel, Morgana, if somebody knocked you down and took your crown?”

“Um … _sad?_ ”

“So how do you think Arthur feels?”

Morgana cast a glance over at Arthur, who was still sitting with his back to everyone, his arms crossed firmly.

“A’tah ang’y,” said Morgana, with a hint of a giggle.

“Well … yes,” said Gorlois, “but underneath that anger, how do you think he feels?”

“Sad?” said Morgana in a small voice.

“Yes, I think so,” said Gorlois. “Now if somebody made you feel sad, can you think of something they might do that would make you feel better?”

“Um …” said Morgana, touching her finger to her chin thoughtfully. “Hug?” she said brightly, holding her arms wide.

“Yes, that’s one way,” said Gorlois, laughing and allowing Morgana to hug him, “but can you think of something _else_ you’d like someone to do if they’d made you sad?”

“Um … say sah’ee?”

“Mmm …” said Gorlois, lifting Morgana and setting her on her feet. “So what do you think _you_ should do, then?”

Morgana looked from Gorlois to Arthur and back again. Gorlois gave her an encouraging nod.

Morgana cautiously approached Arthur. She knelt down on the floor in front of him, but he turned his head away and refused to look at her.

“A’tah … I sah’ee,” said Morgana.

Arthur frowned at her for a moment, then crossed his arms stubbornly.

“‘Gana mean.”

“ _Arthur!_ ” said Uther warningly.

Morgana’s brow wrinkled thoughtfully. A moment later, she sprang to her feet and ran back to Gorlois.

“Gapes?” she said, pointing to a platter of fruit on the table.

“What’s the m–” began Gorlois, but then he caught Uther’s eye and changed tack mid-sentence. “What’s the special word?”

“Gapes, _pease_ ,” amended Morgana. 

Gorlois took a small bunch of grapes from the platter and placed them in Morgana’s outstretched hands.

“Teku, Papa!” Morgana thanked Gorlois quickly, before pitter-pattering back to Arthur.

“Hee’w, A’tah,” she said and held out the grapes to him.

Arthur eyed the grapes suspiciously for a moment, then Morgana, as though trying to decide whether it was a trick.

But then, at long last, he took them.

He plucked a single grape from the stem and turned it over thoughtfully in his tiny fingers, before putting it slowly into his mouth.

Morgana smiled and patted Arthur on the shoulder.

Arthur swallowed the grape, looked up, and then he smiled too.

“‘Gana nice,” he relented.

He picked another grape, but this time he held it out to Morgana.

“A’tah sheh,” he offered.

“Teku, A’tah!” said Morgana, accepting the grape with enthusiasm. “We f’enz ‘now?”

Arthur nodded.

“A’tah ‘Gana f’enz.”

Morgana beamed and threw her arms around Arthur, who looked startled and slightly confused, as though hugging wasn’t something he was particularly familiar with.

Morgana scrambled to her feet and held her hand out to Arthur to pull him up too. And off they toddled, hand in hand, sharing the grapes between them.

“I’m not sure how you do it, Gorlois,” said Uther, slightly awed.

“Children,” said Gorlois, shrugging. “Sometimes all they require is a little patience and understanding.”

“Are you saying those are qualities that I lack?” said Uther, more amused than offended.

“Not at all! I would _never_ presume to say such a thing to my king. Now, if you _weren’t_ my king …”

“You always were too impertinent for your own good, Gorlois,” said Uther, chuckling. “But I’m glad you got the children to make up,” he added sincerely.

He and Gorlois turned their attention back to Arthur and Morgana, who were tracing their fingers along the patterns on one of the stained-glass windows. Every so often, Arthur would hold out the bunch of grapes to Morgana, but every time she picked one off she gave it to Arthur, and every time he pulled one free he handed it to her.

Together they watched as the moonbeams sparkled on the frosted glass, and they chased from Arthur’s mind every last reason he had harboured for thinking Morgana mean, and instead he conceded that she was actually really nice.

* * *

Twenty-two years later, in the very same corner, by the very same window, Arthur woke with a start.

He had fallen asleep, as he had done so many nights in the past few months, in the hard wooden chair in his father’s chambers.

Arthur’s thoughts lingered with the dream he had just woken from, and he couldn’t decide whether it had been a memory or just an invention of his subconscious mind … Whatever the case, he didn’t have to search too far inside himself to guess what had brought it on.

Arthur lifted his head and rubbed his stiff neck. He had to stop falling asleep in here.

He squinted in the moonlight that streamed in through the stained glass of the windows. Opposite him, the moon-rays fell onto an empty chair.

Arthur felt a brief stab of panic, but then his eyes found his father, tucked safely into bed. Gwen must have been in while he was asleep. He wondered why she hadn’t woken him … perhaps she hadn’t had the heart.

Arthur decided that he _definitely_ had to stop falling asleep like this. The people were going to start thinking he was cracking up too … He thought back to the dream. Maybe he _was_ cracking up too …

He knew he should get up and go to bed. He had a council meeting tomorrow … training with the knights …all the duties of both king and prince.

But somehow he couldn’t muster the energy, so he just sat there and watched his father sleep. But even in sleep, the King had no peace. He looked exhausted, wan and drawn, like he always did these days … ever since …

Arthur thought back to the dream – to everything his father had said … and how wrong he had been …

But Arthur had believed it – every word of it – his entire life. He had taken to heart the lesson his father had already begun teaching him at the age of two: that he had only to be strong enough, and then nothing and nobody could hurt him. He could protect himself, and his kingdom … and his family from all the cruelties of the world.

But now the very man who had taught him this was living proof that the lessons he had taught were wrong. There were some against whose cruelty strength could not defend.

Uther had taught Arthur to be ready for anything his enemies could think to throw at him, to ignore his own doubts and fears and pain and keep on fighting no matter what.

And Arthur had done just that … right up to the moment when he had suddenly found himself faced with a foe he’d never been prepared for, a foe whose cruelty couldn’t be remedied by strength or fighting or even by victory itself … a foe he didn’t _want_ to fight, an enemy he didn’t want to destroy.

And as he had watched her sit on his father’s throne, wearing a crown, not of wood, but of gold, decorated not with little animals, but with precious stones, he had seen all the fight and the defiance and the determination that he had come to take for granted in his father, that he himself had aspired to all his life, drain away forever. And in that moment he had realised that it had never ever been enough.

And even though, at long last, he had fallen back on the old mantra of _be strong, keep going, keep fighting_ , shaken himself into action and taken back the kingdom, taken back the crown for his father and all but found himself wearing it himself, he knew that it had only ever been what it could only ever be … a partial victory.

He had failed to do what he had always believed strength and determination could achieve. Because no one, no matter how strong, could protect those they loved from cruelty when the very source of that cruelty was one of those they had always fought to protect.

And Arthur knew that it was this, above all else, that had made his father give up on the notion that determinedly staying strong was a sure source of protection, because, for all his strength and for all he’d said to Arthur at the age of two, nothing could shield him from the truth that Morgana was, after all, every bit as capable of cruelty as Arthur had once imagined. But her cruelty was no longer the innocent thoughtlessness of a child, and for all Uther’s long-forgotten urgings to his two-year-old son, there were some things that even Uther Pendragon couldn’t simply take in his stride.

But Arthur had learned his father’s lesson well, even if Uther had forgotten it himself, and although any notion that strength meant that no one’s cruelty could hurt him had vanished from his mind, he wasn’t ready to give up on strength entirely. It had saved his people, it had saved most of his friends … even if it could do nothing for his shattered family … even though it could never bring back the little girl who had been like a sister to him long before he even knew she was his sister in truth.

But gone were the days when making peace with Morgana could be achieved by something as simple as sharing a bunch of grapes, and her cruelty, not just to him and his father, but to the innocent people of Camelot, had proven to him that he could never _ever_ give her what she wanted. It seemed that he was doomed forever to play tug of war with his sister over a crown.

But his father had been right; he couldn’t sit in a corner and sulk – even if Uther himself was too broken by Morgana’s betrayal to do anything else – and he knew that no amount of complaining could ever again draw an apology from Morgana. Once upon a time, the mere realisation that she had made Arthur sad had been enough to spur her to try and make it up to him. But no more. She had proven that she no longer cared in the slightest how she made Arthur feel, and he didn’t understand what had changed.

He had a vague idea that it had something to do with magic, and he knew she was angry that their father had lied to her, that she felt the crown of Camelot was rightfully hers, that she resented Arthur for being made heir to the throne in her stead. But was that enough? After everything they had been through, after they had grown up together, even, on occasion, saved each other’s lives, could she truly _hate_ him over a crown? Did the fact that they were brother and sister mean nothing to her at all? No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t understand it. When had it gone wrong? When had her love for him become a lie? He couldn’t even answer that.

All Arthur knew was that he had trusted her, he had loved her like a sister and believed she felt the same way, and she had betrayed him.

It seemed to Arthur that his options were very limited now that the life-long belief that strength could always triumph over cruelty was lost to him: he could fall apart like his father … but he had tried that already, and the people of Camelot had called him back from it to protect them from a cruelty from which he could never protect himself.

So in lieu of giving up, only two choices remained: he could never again allow anyone close enough to hurt him the way Morgana had, he could live a life of solitude – but of safety … or he could go against every instinct that had been ingrained into him since birth and allow himself to be vulnerable, he could accept that loving someone meant they could hurt him but choose to love anyway.

So far he had chosen the latter, because it seemed like the lesser of two evils, but he often wondered whether he hadn’t made the choice out of weakness – because he simply wasn’t strong enough to go it alone. In leaving himself vulnerable was he leaving the kingdom vulnerable? Could he better protect his people by shutting them, all of them, out of his heart? He had been as sure that he could trust Morgana as he’d ever been sure of anything, so if he could have been wrong about her, was there really anyone he _couldn’t_ be wrong about? Perhaps he needed to be stronger, more self-sufficient …

But then he looked at his father and remembered that he was no longer sure he even _believed_ in strength any more. If Uther himself had given strength up as a bad job, what point was there in Arthur still clinging to it?

But he had nothing else to cling to, so day after day he had kept it up, trying to look strong even when he didn’t feel it, forcing himself to pay attention in council meetings even when he felt like staring blankly into space and blocking everyone out the way his father did these days, trying his best to make the right decisions for everyone, while ignoring the nagging voice in the back of his head trying to tell him he wasn’t capable of making the right decisions for _anyone_.

He had, after all, been preparing to run this kingdom his entire life, hadn’t he? So he refused to let Morgana force him to unlearn _everything_ he had ever been taught.

And yet, no matter how hard he tried not to dwell on the thought of what Morgana had done to him, to his father, and to all the other people he had thought she loved too, he could never completely silence the voice that echoed through the years, through all his memories of the sweet, kind girl she had once been – the little girl who had shared grapes with him to stop him from being sad, the little girl who had become part of his family at the age of ten, with whom he had had many an argument, but none that ever resulted in any lasting ill will, the young woman who couldn’t stand to see the suffering of others and went out of her way to help those in need, who always had Arthur’s back, regardless of his refusal to ever admit to needing her help, the young woman who, against all hope, had been returned to him when he had feared she was lost forever … only for it to turn out that she had been lost to him all along in a way far worse than he could ever have imagined, who had used his trust, his very love for her as a weapon against him, the young woman who had sat on his father’s throne wearing a stolen crown, smiling a smile full of the kind of cruelty of which he had never imagined her capable, forcing him to wonder whether he had ever really known her at all.

And through each and every memory of the sister who had turned her back on him, of the friend he had lost forever, the voice buried deep in Arthur’s subconscious cried out with all the unbridled indignation at injustice that only a two-year-old could ever muster … _‘Gana mean._

**Author's Note:**

> Like it, hate it or something in-between? Tell me about it in a comment, and don’t be afraid of being too long-winded. I’ve got nothing against rambling … hence the length of this author’s note. But short, simple comments are welcome too, of course.
> 
> This story was inspired by a very strange habit my sister and I got into of emulating our brother’s finance’s toddler’s way of talking. When watching some Merlin episode or other where Morgana was acting particularly nasty, one of us (I can’t remember which) said “‘Gana mean”, and it stuck and became the general refrain for any time Morgana was really horrible to someone, and eventually the phrase inspired this story. Two and three-year-old Arthur and Morgana’s dialogue is also based to varying degrees on my brother’s fiance’s toddler’s way of talking, so I guess partial credit for this story should go to him, and partial credit should go to my sister, [RavenclawVulcanofCamelot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenclawVulcanofCamelot), who may or may not have been the first person to utter the phrase “‘Gana mean”.
> 
> If you hadn’t already figured it out, my reason for writing this in narrative instead of screenplay format was the bit at the end. Obviously screenplay format isn’t the best medium for conveying a character’s thoughts, and looking at something from a certain character’s point of view is just about the only reason I’d use narrative format for a TV-show-based story. If this had just been a story about Arthur and Morgana as kids, I would have written it in screenplay format. I actually very briefly considered writing the dream/memory in screenplay format and then switching to narrative for Arthur’s thoughts at the end, but I quickly decided it was better to be consistent, otherwise it would have felt too disjointed and untidy. After doing a lot of writing in screenplay format, it was quite difficult to transition back to narrative at first. Strangely I also found it difficult to transition back to past tense, even though I generally hate present tense and it took quite a lot for me to get used to using it when I first started writing in screenplay format. I never used to understand why some writers have so much trouble sticking to a single tense when they write, but the first time I proofread this, I found several instances where I’d accidentally reverted to present tense. Shame on me.
> 
> A note on the T rating: I went back and forth a little on whether to rate this story G or T. Technically there’s not really anything in it that would absolutely require a T rating, but while I didn’t want to give away in the summary that there was going to be a time jump at the end, I felt that the summary (which originally consisted of only the first sentence of the summary you see now) along with a G rating would give too much of an impression that it was just plain fluff. I decided to go with the T rating to give some indication that the story might end up being a bit darker than your average fluffy “kid fic”. Upon further reflection, I decided to add a second line of description to the summary to further hint at the tone without giving too much away.
> 
> Happy Boxing Day.
> 
> ~~Additional tags: Betrayal, Treachery, Treason, Post-Betrayal, Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Emotional Hurt, Kidfic, Kid!fic, Hurt!Arthur, Hurt Arthur~~


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